I usually do laundry on Saturday morning. Sometimes Sunday if I push it, but this week, for reasons I can’t explain, I did it on Tuesday afternoon.
Two big loads with a mix of my clothes and Fritz’s. George handles his own laundry. Hazel hasn’t been around much, so there wasn’t anything of hers in the basket. Just mine and Fritz’s. Washed, dried, folded, put away before dinnertime.
The next day was when I had to take Fritz to the hospital.
Now who gives a crap about Jumbo doing laundry outside of his routine!?!?
That is when it hit me.
They say pregnant women start nesting before they give birth. Getting the house ready. Preparing without fully knowing why.
I’m thinking by divine intervention, that is why I got the laundry done before my whole schedule shifted. Before the hospital visit and before bringing a patient home for the long weekend.
Another small mystery in the long story of my faith.
Yesterday was Saint Valentine’s Day. I saw a shit ton of boys at the grocery store grabbing flowers like they were buying insurance. I had a romantic evening of my own with a cigar and a glass of bourbon. Smoke rising slowly and elegantly under the brim of my cap. Bourbon stinging the back of my throat like a French kiss with a rough tongue. I climbed into bed with my book and just as I settled under the clean sheets, I farted without apology.
That was when I appreciated being alone. No “pardon me.” No performance of being the first man to ever fart in bed. Just the peace of a novel, Downey fresh bedding and WDCB playing blues on my nightstand radio.
Today is Sunday Funday. The sun is smiling and we are flirting with sixty degrees in February. What is the over-under on middle-aged white men wearing shorts today? They will be on the walking path, in the beer aisle, maybe even holding court at the tavern.
Go find some astonishment today.
Chase it with a little gusto.
Three more weeks and we move the clocks forward.
